


im·por·tune

by spock



Category: Hail Caesar! (2016)
Genre: (slight) Hero Worship, Awkward Romance, Courtship, Frottage, Fumbling Sex, Getting Together, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurence and Hobie make a habit of talking past each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	im·por·tune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



There isn’t a day goes by where Hobie doesn't end up using somethin' he'd picked up during his ranchin' years. The majority of it is still just as relevant as the day it was taught to him, even all the way down in sunny Southern California where nowadays half the folks he spends his time with don't so much as sweat for real, the dew on their skin misted there expertly from a squirt bottle's nozzle. It's different, sure, being that it's people he's handlin' rather than animals, and wrangling critters came far easier to him than half the mess he deals with on a daily basis now, but still, for the most part, it's still the same as what all he grew up with.

He makes a point of sussin' out the who's who of every set he steps on to, spotting the bulls, ornery just 'cause they take it as their due, who you always gotta keep watch on out of the corner of your eye, to make sure you aren't trampled in their wake; hens, who make a point of getting underfoot and causing trouble by fussin' what where they don't belong; goats, who mind their own business while cleaning up the messes others leave behind before they can get out of hand.

Hobie thinks of himself as one of the horses: perennially good for a long day's work, after which you can set him out to pasture and he'll take care of himself just fine without getting any into any sort of trouble, the last one that'd ever need worryin' over.

Directors, in Hobie's experience, are one of the few direct links between the two eras of his life. They're the same as foremen, skilled at overseeing daily life but prone to turning a blind eye to the intangibles. Hobie's always felt that the minute details are always the ones that make the biggest amount of difference, like which of the hounds goes to bed earliest and therefore can be relied on to be sharpest in the mornin', or which of the hogs can never squirm its way to the front of the chow line and needs to be fed extra after to make sure it fattens up as well as the rest.

The difference between an alright spread and a great one has always lied in how those sorts of intangibles were spotted and handled, and it's where Hobie's always found his niche. It's a sorta additional usefulness that he's come to depend on without really even noticing. Foremen loved him for it back when he was a hand, and he likes to think it's the reason the directors he's workin’ with now are just as taken with him as they’d been. He likes the fact that people find more value in him beyond his actual job title, be it actor or ranch hand. He likes being counted on, needed.

Problem is, Mr. Laurentz handles intangibles just as well as Hobie ever has, if not better.  

   


* * *

 

Hobie's gotten himself a routine of showing up on the lot bright and early. He makes sure to say hello to Scotty at the security booth, wide smile on his face, and heads to the cafeteria, rounding himself up the blackest coffee he can find. Then spends fifteen minutes painstakingly fixing a cup of tea with the tiniest bit of milk and far more sugar, a process that's taken him weeks to perfect and sort the whole thing out, largely through trial and error.

The first time he tried his hand at it, his first mistake had been fixin' two cups of coffee, which had Laurence telling him that he didn't partake in the stuff, all genteel-like, and then he'd kindly gifted the cup Hobie had fixed for him to one of the techies. Just thinking about it still has Hobie's face heat up somethin' fierce, the whole thing feeling like one of his life's greatest failures. He'd spent a good long time apologizin' and asking just what it was that Mr. Laurentz did drink, and how he'd like it prepared.

Tea now fixed and his own coffee half-drank, Hobie goes about trying to find Laurence. He's got his own trailer right next to the sound stages, plus a permanent office to be used at his leisure on the lot, but Hobie's yet to have so much have ever glanced him in either place.

Today Hobie finds him sat a few paces into one of the studio's gardens at a white circle of a table. Hobie's heart drops down to his boots when he sees that Laurence already has a cup sat in front of him. Hobie's been fixin' Laurence tea each day that he's been on the call sheet for a couple months now. He's not sure how to take this.

"Mornin', Mr. Laurentz," Hobie calls, voice a half-mumble.

Laurence startles before smiling at him, demure. "Ah, my dear boy," he says, "Yes, good morning."

Hobie stands there awkwardly for a few seconds, both hands full and unsure of his welcome. Laurence blinks and then breathes, "Oh dear. Here, let me." He stands and goes to pull out the chair opposite the one he'd taken for himself, waving a hand at the seat.

"Uh." Hobie rushes to set down the tea he'd fixed for Laurence next to the still-full cup Hobie found him with. "No it's fine, you don't gotta! I sure don’t want to impose or nothin’."

"Nonsense." Laurence is smiling again, still standing behind the chair. Hobie sits himself down in it and then puts his coffee on the table in front of him. Laurence’s hand grazes along the length of his shoulder when he walks back and retakes his seat.

"Thank you, Hobie," he says, nodding his head at the tea Hobie brought him. "I'd lost track of time, it seems. My own appears to have gone tepid."

Hobie watches as he picks up the glass and takes a drink, feels as if his heart quits beating while he waits for Laurence's verdict. He hates that he gets like this. He's been fixing Mr. Laurentz's tea for months now, knows that he's got the finer details of it nailed down, but a part of him still expects for it to be spat out, to be asked just what in the hell Hobie thinks he's playing at.

Laurence doesn't miss his staring. "Wonderful." He places the cup back onto the table after declaring his benediction, that demure smile sliding right back onto his lips. "As always. Thank you Hobie." And with that Hobie can breathe again. He takes a swill of his coffee to help alleviate the sudden dryness of his mouth.

“I take it your evening went well then?” Laurence asks, hands folded neatly on his lap, visible to Hobie through the latticing of the table. “Although, not so well that you couldn’t make it in to work so early, of course.”

Hobie’s glad that he brought it up, happy to’ve fallen into their usual morning routine and even more grateful to talk about this in particular. “It was alright. You were missed though, sir.” He’d asked Laurence if he’d care to join him for dinner, to which Laurence had declined. Laurence declines just about everything Hobie tries to invite him to, but Hobie doesn’t let that stop him from continuing to give it his all.

He hadn’t actually had any plans aside from trying to step out with Laurence, so he’d actually gone straight home and had an early night. It technically _was_ alright though, so it’s not like he’s fibbin’.

Little Toby comes 'round the other side of the bushes then, brandishing a clipboard nearly as wide as the chest it’s being held in front of, face all businesses as he glances around before spotting them. "Mister Laurence!" He's still at the age where his voice only has two settings, inside and outside; his shout of Laurence's name, despite coming from all but a few paces away, echoes a great distance further. "Hobie," he adds, no less loud, but far more delighted.

"Ah, my keeper," Laurence says, his voice dipping low, and directs a conspiratorial wink Hobie's way. He swallows the last of his tea and then looks down to his side where Toby’s come to stand. "What's on the docket for me today, sweetheart?" He's told that they've finished dressing the first stage on the call sheet and that he can come assess it now.

Pushing his seat back from the table, Laurence rises to his feet and removes his jacket from where it was draped over the back of his chair, shrugging into it as gracefully as he does everything else in life.

Hobie keeps himself sitting, silent, staring pointedly at Laurence, knowing from experience that the look on his face would be described by most that he grew up alongside as decidedly hangdog. They also made it a point to pay him no mind whenever he tried to pull it on. Laurence though — Laurence smiles and says, "Would you care to come along, Hobie?"

He's out of his chair in double time.

*

 

They're shooting pickups this week, which means everything goes infinitely quicker, only needing a quick variation of a line or a shot of someone looking over their shoulder and then they’re moving on to something completely different and equally succinct. Before Hobie even realizes the time, they've broken for lunch. He follows after Laurence, hoping to talk him into them having lunch together.

Mr. Mannix is outside, visibly irate as he has a hushed shouting match with one of the Thackers. "Oh good," she says, loud enough that it carries to them on the steps, elbowing Mannix in the stomach as she sidesteps him and heads their way. "Just the man I was looking for. Mr. Laurentz, might I have but a moment of your time?"

Laurence's shoulders set themselves and an uptick pulls at the corners of all his lips and eyes, making him seem attentive but uninterested. The expression is an exact copy of one he coached Hobie through a couple weeks back, when he wanted Monty pretending to Allegra’s face that he didn’t know something was up with her and Biff, but the audience needed to know that Monty wasn’t buyin’ her lies no more. Hobie never fails to be amazed at how good at Laurence is at actin' in real life, when Hobie only just feels as if he’s got one hand on the reins when the camera's on him half the time, nevermind dealin' with the day-to-day.

"I'm sure I couldn't refuse even should I want to,” Laurence says. “What can I do for you, Thessaly?" Hobie's got no idea how he can tell them apart, but maybe Laurence is a good guess with a bullshitter's resolve.

Either way, he seems to've pulled the right name, because the woman doesn't so much as blink. "So nice that _some people_ understand that the press have a right to deliver the truth!" She looks pointedly at Mannix, who's joined them, hand pressed against his abdomen where Thessaly had rammed him.

"I'll cut right to it," she says, though Hobie's had enough interactions with the twins to find such a statement highly dubious. "While my sister broke the initial piece on Gurney's communist escape, I've found that there's a _much_  bigger story than the mere betrayal to his country. There's fear within every last one of us, gentlemen, that someone we know might be a traitor, and people are unsure of how to deal with such a fallout! How does one overcome such a loss? Surely it must sting worse than death, because even in death there still exists fond memories. To find proof of betrayal casts even a happy past in doubt!"

"Absolutely dreadful," Laurence says, cutting her off before she starts to carry on more. His face is cut with the epitome of sympathy, of someone attentively listening to each word uttered, but Hobie can see the slight shift of the arm closest to him as Laurence stretches it past the cuff of his jacket, the blink-and-you'll-miss-it dart of his eyes down to his wrist, checking the time. Hobie has to roll his lips into his mouth to keep from laughing. "Something I, of course, have first hand experience with, having worked with Burt on multiple occasions, which is why you'd think to come to me, I'm sure. A first-hand account, and so high profile, too."

He takes Thessaly by her elbow, slowly leading her down one of the paths that should end up in the general direction of the cafeteria, Mannix hot on their heels. Hobie trails after them, watching Laurence do his stuff.

"I've thought about this endlessly, as you’d expect. Were there any signs? How could I not have known? It was such a shock to me, you know. He'd never had a bad thing to say about the country, never to me, anyway. All that I can say is that there were no signs. It's as they've always said: it could truly be anyone. Your child, your favorite actor, your favorite columnist."

Thessaly's head whips to Laurence, face going gray under the already white pallor of her makeup, practically wrenching her arm from his grip.

"In the end we just cannot know, I'm afraid. I've decided not to think about it, and enjoy all those whom I care for. Fear mongering is, after all, a stable of communism, is it not? There shall be time enough to grieve and worry after the truth reveals itself, as truths always do."

Thessaly looks about as far from amused as a bull on castration' day. "Quite right. Well, thank you, Mr. Laurentz." Mannix wastes no time in dragging her off away from them after that. 

"Well, that was somethin' else," Hobie says. "Remind me to never get on your bad side, Mr. Laurentz."

Laurence heaves out a great sigh, sounding nearly exactly the same as Whitey gets after the poor thing’s been forced to do a stunt five times in a row. "Come now, none of that." He flits Hobie a smile and adds, with complete seriousness, "But see that you don't." It makes Hobie laugh, full-bellied.

The rest of their walk is companionable, splitting ways when they reach the cafeteria. Hobie watches nervously as Laurence gathers his food on the other side of the hall, anxiously waiting for himself to be served so that he can hurry back to Laurence’s side before he tries to give Hobie the slip.

He can hardly describe the relief that he feels when Laurence ends up at a two-seater table and glances around to search for Hobie, smiling when their eyes meet. He rushes over once he's had his plate handed to him, nearly throwing himself into the chair opposite of Laurence. He hopes that Laurence doesn't notice that his appetite is practically nonexistent. He's too nervous to eat.

"Thanks for saving me a seat," Hobie practically breathes out the words. "How do you reckon' these reshoots are goin'?"

Using his knife to push some of the potato on his plate onto his fork, Laurence says, "Unusually well." He takes a bite, chews, and swallows more elegantly thann Hobie's ever done anything in his life, even when he really gives it his all. "I think we might be finished before the week is up. You've really come such a long way, Hobie. It's remarkable."

"It's all on account of you," Hobie says, and he means it. "I hope I'm doing right by you. I don't think I could ever show my face again if this here picture doesn't end up doing as well as your back catalog."

Laurence waves his hand as if to bat the words from the air, reaching with his other to bring his afternoon fix of tea to his mouth. "Nonsense." He pauses to drink. "I'm sure this will be my most popular picture yet," he says. "If for no other reason than all the fans of your usual fare come along just to see what it is you've gotten yourself into."

The thought of it makes Hobie smile, all them dudes and cowboy-fiends walking into the theater to see Hobie make a fool of himself, but sticking around for Laurence's amazin' directorial eye. "I'll line 'em up and you knock 'em down."

"There's the spirit." Laurence smiles around the rim of his cup. "Although," he begins to say, and something in his tone has Hobie's stomach clenching up. "I can't help but think that perhaps — well, I'm sure you didn't miss the look in Miss Thacker's eye when she realized that you were near me.” Hobie can honestly say that he didn’t even realize that she’d seen him there at all, focused as she was on grillin’ Laurence. She certainly didn’t send no greetin’ Hobie’s way. “I won't pretend to imagine that you haven't heard at least half of the gossip that surrounds me, either. Surely more than one someone has advised you to keep some distance from me?"

The cloud overtop of Hobie disappears as swiftly as it's arrived, and he laughs out his relief. "Oh heck, Laurence, I don't care about none of that." Laurence blinks and sits up taller in his chair, which has Hobie laughin' just that little bit harder. "You should hear that they say about me back home; I'm usually the one that people get warned off of! Seems to me that crazy stories attached to a man's name just means he's had a life well lived, if he's so interesting that other people can't his name out of their mouth. I figure we're birds of a feather that way."

Laurence stares at him like he's grown another head. Hobie drops his grin down to his plate and picks up his fork for the first time since he sat down, appetite returned. 

  

* * *

 

The end of filming has always come with a sense of bittersweet melancholy for Hobie, 'since he always finds himself missing the cast and the everchangin’ fun acting and doing stunt work brings to his life on the daily, but usually he's glad to have a break all the same, if only for a little while.

This time around he's found it to be a whole lotta bitter with none of the sweet to temper it. He'd hoped that when Mr. Laurentz had said _undoubtedly_ to Hobie askin' if he'd be seeing him around, that the man had actually meant it.

Three weeks into post without so much of catching hide nor hair of Laurence has Hobie doubting the sincerity of such a statement, leaving him surlier than he admittedly has any right being, but that’s never stopped him before and it sure as hell won’t now.

He's stewing in his little bungalow when Mr. Mannix calls him up, informing him that he needs to get down to Hollywood-proper and meet Carlotta for lunch. Hobie gives his _yes sir_ 's and goes to clean himself up. By the time he's decent there's already a car from the studio idling on the curb.

Despite the delay, he still gets there before Carlotta, so he does some hovering around the front entrance until she arrives. "Howdy!" she says once Hobie frees her from the back seat, and it makes him grin.

They ask to be sat on the patio out front, where the sun is bright and any nosey photographers the studio sent out can get nice, clear pictures of their faces.

"Sorry that I couldn't go see that new film of yours with you," Hobie says, the both of them seated and having already placed their orders. "I offered, but Mr. Mannix said that they were gonna have you go with some other fella, to help play up the drama or somethin'. I did end up seein' it though. You was real good. I wish I had it in me to do that kinda fun stuff."

"Hobie!" Carlotta brings a hand to her chest, like he's given her the biggest shock of her life. "Are you kidding me? You're hilarious! You'd put Jerry straight out of work."

The thought of it makes Hobie laugh. "Well, I don't know about all that. I just got the hang of actually talkin', after all. But we'll see, I suppose. Dean Martin seems nice enough." Carlotta nods, as if it a decided thing.

Their waiter brings out their appetizer and they tuck in. Hobie's mindful of his appetite and how this is meant to be a shared dish, and takes care to eat less than he'd like.

"So," Carlotta asks, dabbing at her lipstick with the corner of her napkin, "how are things going with you?"

"Awful," Hobie says, unable to stop himself. And with that it's like something loosens up inside of him, words spilling out like an overturned trough. "Well, I suppose ain't dying or nothing. It's just, I thought I was making a friend is all, and it seems like I've been given the slip."

"That _is_ awful!"

Hobie hadn't even known he was looking for someone to commiserate with, but now that he's got it, it feels like he couldn’t let up even if he wanted to. "It's the worst, Carlotta. I get nervous and end up doin' somethin' that makes his life harder, or I'm a bad—bad," he stumbles over what word he wants to use, dithering over it for a few seconds, " _conversationalist_ I guess, is how he'd see it. I bet he thinks I'm boring or slow, and that's why he must have been glad to be rid of me the first chance he got."

"That doesn't sound like you at all! You've never been nervous around me."

Hobie sighs and lets his head drop down to the table, slightly to the right of his plate so that he's still facing Carlotta and not any wayward photographers that might be stationed across the street. Suddenly he isn’t all that game to have himself captured at this here particular moment. "I never get nervous with girls. Well, allowin' for the fact that I haven’t never known all that many, my previous line of work bein' what it was. I get along with the ones I do know just fine though, y'all are a hoot."

He places both hands on the edge of the table and pushes himself back up straight, drawin’ in a big or breath to replace the air he lost in that sigh. "Naw, it's always been men like him who give me the sweats. Can't tell if they like ya or not, got that presence about them that takes up the whole room? Drives me crazy."

 

*

 

Spending all afternoon bemoaning Laurence proves to have done nothing positive for Hobie's current predicament. He drags himself back home feeling almost worse than he'd been before walking out the door in the first place, even though finally talking about the funk he’s fallen into did feel pretty good.

Not bothering to turn on any of the lights, he stumbles his way past the living room, into the hallway, and through the door to his bedroom before collapsing onto his bed, face down. He kicks off his boot and wiggles his way out of his clothes until all he's left in are his skivvies, and then he drags those down his legs too.

He flips over onto his back and stares at the ceiling. It takes about ten seconds of thinking about Laurence calling him _dear boy_ and demanding to know why he can't convey this or that emotion up to snuff for Hobie's dick to thicken up and stare at the ceiling too.

Crawling up the bed on his elbows, he drops his head onto his pillow and then reaches for himself, starts up a lazy stroking rhythm. His mind takes him right to his go-to fantasy, entirely based on a Laurence that doesn't exist in reality, the one the rumors make him out to be.

That first day on set, after they'd come back from lunch, Laurence had dragged Hobie into a side room with one of the writers and worked on finding a line Hobie could actually deliver that still worked with his character. It'd set the tone for the rest of filming, Laurence guiding him through the process of starring in a proper drama where lines needed to be more than just said. He could tell that for Laurence it was like pullin’ teeth, but he’d never gone beyond the occasional slapping of Hobie’s hands or slight raising of his voice, ever a gentleman.

In Hobie's mind, he imagines a Laurence hadn't cared to suffer Hobie's fresh-footed, wet-behind-the-ears stumblin’. That he'd dragged Hobie into the room with far less kindness in his heart, the two of them alone in that cramped little space. The Laurence people gossiped about woulda asked if there actually was anything Hobie was good for, and Hobie, never one to cow at an insult, woulda yanked out his teeth and said _guess_ , and then that Laurence would have no other thought in his mind beyond shoving Hobie down onto his knees, no questions asked, and stuffing his cock into Hobie's mouth before Hobie even realized Laurence had undone the fly of those fitted trousers of his.

And Hobie, well, Hobie woulda loved every second of it. Wouldn't even choke, long since used to the _rough_ part of rough'n'tumble, half his teens spent sneaking into the beds of fellow bunk hands — or, on a few occasions, into a couple with rancher's sons themselves; and on one notable instance, with a rancher himself — and getting off as quick as he could before he had to scuttle off elsewhere or risk being caught.

He'd take whatever Laurence would give him. He'd stare up at him the entire time, swallowing around his dick and watching the way such a put-together fella lost himself to his passions within the confines of Hobie's mouth. Hell, Hobie'd probably come right there in his pants just from how wild the whole thing would make him, not needin’ to touch himself, likely before Laurence himself finished.

Hobie spills over his fingers and takes a breath for the first time in what feels like hours, gasping wetly and digging his hand into the muscles of his thigh with his free hand.

He promises to himself that the next time he sees Laurence, he’ll show his cards, since he doesn’t think he can put up with many more nights like this before he goes mad. There’s only so much bush beatin’ a man can do before he has to get off the pot, and the way Hobie’s been wearily treadin’ around Laurence from the jump has ensured that point has long since passed, especially given Hobie's usual way of goin’ about things. Goin’ about it the Hollywood way hasn’t done him a lick of good. He’s official through with it.  

   


* * *

 

Hobie spots Laurence at the grocers and nearly drives his cart into a goddamn shelf.

"Mr. Laurentz!" His voice sounds strangled and he could not even begin to remotely care. "Laurence!"

Laurence turns, visibly bewildered, and stares at Hobie, dead-to-rights. "Ah," he says, and leaves it at that.

Hobie wheels his way over. "I, uh, that is, I didn't know you lived in Palm Springs." Laurence is wearing a sweater in a softish purple that goes with his coloring mighty well. His pants are tan. He looks like one of those distinguished models they'd have in an upscale magazine, selling watches that damn near cost as much as some cars. Hobie is distinctly aware of his years-old jeans and white t-shirt; he hopes with all his might that he looks more James Dean than Huck Finn.

"I could say the same to you." Laurence looks uncomfortable. Hobie watches as he busies himself with his hands, tugging at the fitted sleeves of his sweater. "It's quite lovely. I wouldn't want to live elsewhere in the area, honestly."

"Me neither," Hobie agrees. "You do your own shoppin' all the time, then?" Hobie wants for nothing more than for this to stop being awkward. He doesn't even understand why it _is_ , why Laurence is acting this way towards him, but if it lasts much longer Hobie'll be forced to be rude. The promise he made after abusin’ himself a few weeks back burns hot in the corner of his mind.

"Quite. I, well – my family, we grew up with maids and the like. I suppose shopping for myself still holds a bit of novelty, even after all this time. And yourself?"

Hobie smiles, insides jittering, and lightly taps his cart against Laurence's. "Oh I'm an old hat. My folks were dirt poor and I grew up on my own, anyhow, seeing as I started wranglin' right around the time I hit my teens. I can cook fairly well too, if you'll allow the brag."

"Marvelous." Laurence genuinely smiles this time. He raises a hand with one of his knuckles bent out, which he uses to knock against Hobie once it’s level with chest. "I'll let you get to it then, shall I? I'll see you at the premiere, I'm sure. Ta." Hobie stares, flummoxed and rooted in place, as Laurence turns without another word and wheels his way out of the aisle.

He has no idea what in the hell just happened, but Hobie decides right then and there that it absolutely cannot stand.

Laurence is only a few aisles over when Hobie catches him, wheeling in close and then pullin' an about-face so that he's got Laurence trapped. It's early, the store only having opened not but twenty minutes ago. Hobie likes to get his shoppin' done early as to avoid being noticed all that much, while he's sure Laurence does it just on account of how he's the type to be fussy about those sorts of things. The store's pretty much deserted; Hobie's not worried about being interrupted.

"You're gonna have to pardon my forwardness here, Laurence," Hobie says, angling his face up and puffing up his chest, like it makes any difference towards closing the few inches Laurence has got on him. "But just what in the hell are you playin' at here?"

He watches as Laurence licks his lips and lolls his eyes to the left, avoiding Hobie's gaze. "I'm sure I don't have the faintest idea as to what you're saying."

"Don't have–" Hobie trails off, flabbergasted, before anger starts a stampede in his heart that he isn't all that sure he actually wants to rustle back. "Well I'll spell it out for ya'." Hobie drops his voice into a whisper, lips pinched. "Just why is it that you keep avoiding me like I'm some sorta fly you can't shake, hm?"

Laurence looks back at him again and seems to finally be getting mad himself. _Good_ , Hobie thinks. Better than him acting like butter wouldn’t ever melt in his damn mouth.

"I understand that this isn't exactly your area, Hobie." His tone is slow, measured, just as low as Hobie's to keep people from overhearing and coming over to see what’s kickin' off. "But despite whatever it is you may have heard about me and my kind, I don't actually sell my soul to every pretty face that bats their eyelashes my way. Why don't you do yourself a favor and take the hint."

Hobie wants to rip his own damn hair out. It's an insult that Laurence is mirroring the same sort of expression at him, as if he has any right to be as pissed as Hobie is. " _Take a hint!?_ "

"I know that people have warned you about me. _I've_ warned you about me. I don't know what you're playing at, but I'm tired of it. Baird was nearly blackmailed and Burt fucked off to the USSR.” It’s the first time Hobie’s ever heard him curse and the word flies out of his mouth so naturally that it has to be a common thing. Hobie had thought that he’d had a good grasp on how Laurence is, but now he’s not so sure.

He’s startin’ to get the idea that Laurence might not be all that he projects himself to be, and it makes him that much madder for Laurence having hidden this bit of himself away. “I realize that my track record is far from stellar, but do give me _some_ credit. I don't need you getting tired of whatever career-advancing, affection-bartering game this is and reporting me for some kind of indecency. Regardless of what you've been told about me, know this: I have no interest in the unwilling."

" _Unwilling_!" It takes all of Hobie's wherewithal to keep from shoutin' his damn head off. "Listen here, you English bastard, 'cause I only care to have this discussion the once and I'm tired of waitin' on you."

A woman walks past the end of their isle, basket in hand, and seems like she might turn down into it. Hobie shuts up quick and turns his face in the opposite direction of where she’s at, can feel Laurence's body tense up beside him. From a ways away he hears another woman shout, "Sally!" Their woman turns, smiles, and walks off in the direction of the voice, leaving them alone yet again.

Laurence and he let out their breaths at the same time, loud gusts filling up the air between them.

"I can't believe you got me doin' this in public," Hobie mutters. "Alright, Laurence, let's sort this out quick. I know I damn well told you that _I'm_ one of those fellas that people get warned off of, too, but since you're too thickheaded I'll spell it out for ya', plain-like: I'm sweet on you." He pauses between each word, voice even lower now, letting them settle for a second or two before moving on to the next. "And we're gonna do this my way now, because you seem to be rather piss-poor at playin’ your own game." Laurence opens his mouth to say somethin', but Hobie carries on, " _And_ maybe I haven't gotten your Hollywood doublespeak nailed down perfect neither, I’ll admit to that."

Hobie shifts himself so that he's standing beside Laurence rather than in front of him, Hobie facing the shelf on Laurence’s right, while Laurence looks at the one across the way behind Hobie's back. It lets Hobie speak in an even lower whisper now that he's got direct access to Laurence's ear. "Here's what's gonna happen, Mr. Laurentz. I'm gonna follow you around this here market until you finish up your shoppin'. I'm gettin' in your car and drivin' back home with you, and then I'm gonna smooch you as soon as that front door closes behind us. I'll put my perishables into your ice box and help you put away your things. And _then_ I'm gonna sit you down on your couch and take you apart. Do you hear me?"

Laurence swallows, loud enough for Hobie to hear — bringin' a grin to Hobie’s face — and nods. 

   


*

 

Hobie’s still grinnin’ as he watches the bag boy fits his groceries into a paper sack like perfect puzzle pieces. The man working the register knows Hobie, and so they chat while he rings up Laurence next, going over how his son's little league games have shaken out since the last time Hobie saw him.

As they leave the store, Hobie notes that the sun has fully settled itself into the sky, the breeze from the ocean giving a nice nip to the air. He follows Laurence to his car, answers, "Naw, I live a few blocks away, so I walked," when Laurence asks concernedly if Hobie's leaving his car unattended somewhere in the lot.

The drive to Laurence's is nice. They take the coastal road and Hobie rolls his window all the way down despite the chill and his lack of sleeves. The smile on his face won't quit, and the reasonin' behind it is enough to make him pay no mind to the cold. It grows, stretching the limits of his cheeks, whenever he catches Laurence tossin' him looks out of the corner of his eye.

He watches as Laurence fumbles with getting his key into the lock, stands behind him with a bemused expression on his face, his purchases sat at his feet with Laurence's held in his arms. "Would that it were that simple, eh, doll?"

Laurence stills and twists to look behind himself at Hobie, disdain on his face perfectly conveyed without him sayin' a single word. Hobie feels no shame in the way it gets his blood boilin’. He smiles and raises his eyebrows, keepin' quiet.

It takes another try and a half more, but the door does eventually open. Laurence picks up Hobie's bag and then turns to enter the house. Hobie follows him inside and then crowds Laurence against the back of the door, dim echo of the slam it makes lingering inside Laurence's fancy beach-side home.

The bags between them mean that they can't press close, but it isn't too much of a hardship for Hobie to roll forward onto his toes and kiss Laurence across the gap.

Laurence and he put away the groceries at that, Hobie smug over the fact that Laurence seems to be in a daze.

    


*

 

Laurence's couch is a great big plush thing. It's easy for Hobie to drop down on it and then drag Laurence next to him, wasting no time in pressing their mouths together.

Hobie strokes his fingers along Laurence's neck as they kiss, sometimes sliding down to play with the neckline of his sweater, or up to stroke at his jaw, but mostly stroking the tendons of his throat, feeling his heartbeat. He likes the feel of it so much that he makes sure to keep one hand there when he frees the other to drop down to Laurence's lap, rubbing at him through the front of his pants.

"I'd like to just," Laurence starts to say, pulling back a smidge. He fumbles with his fly and then raises up to shove his pants and shorts down to his thighs, freeing himself to the air and Hobie's eagle-eyed gaze. "I'm quite fond of these," he explains, nodding down at his pants. Hobie isn't about to complain.

He kisses Laurence as he works on finding the perfect grip around Laurence's dick, testing out different ways of squeezin'. After a few strokes he figures out the right rhythm, a lose tug centered right around the head that he discovers by the wet noises Laurence puffs into his mouth. They soon turn into words, Laurence saying, "Drat, I feel ridiculous," before he pulls away again and yanks his sweater and undershirt over his head, tossing them to the floor somewhere. Hobie doesn't stop his rhythm while Laurence goes about gettin' himself naked, not even when Laurence kicks his shoes and pants the rest of the way off.

"Hobie," Laurence says, still talking into Hobie's mouth for the most part, largely due to Hobie hovering close throughout all that. Hobie doesn't think he could stop kissin' Laurence even if someone wedged a crowbar between 'em. "Hobie, wouldn't you care to take yours off too?"

"Naw," Hobie says. "I'm alright."

He pushes to restart their kiss, but Laurence turns away. "Hobie, take off your clothes."

Hobie heaves out what feels like the greatest goddamn sigh of his entire life and does as he's told, not worth the argument nor risk of settin’ this prissy fella of his off and having Laurence call a stop to the whole thing. He lets go of that nice dick and sweet neck to stand and make quick work of his own clothes until he's just as naked as Laurence.

He climbs back onto the couch when he's done, straddling himself into Laurence's lap and taking both of them into his hand, the other settling right back in its newfound home along the side of Laurence's throat, falling back into their kiss. Hobie gets about a solid minute of grinding the two of them together before Laurence is talkin' again.

"Would you happen to mind terribly if I were on top of you?" He asks. Hobie wouldn't.

He twists and shifts his weight so that he totters sideways to the couch, onto his back. "This gonna be a thing with you?" Hobie asks as Laurence drapes himself over him. "Directin' sex? Feel like it'd be easier if we moved it to a bed, should that be the case."

Laurence laughs, beautiful and breathless, right along the side of Hobie's face. "No, no." His voice is pure indulgence. Laurence starts rolling his hips, their dicks sliding alongside one another; the move combined with the sweet sound of his laughter hits Hobie like kick to the stomach. "You said this was going to happen on the settee, so here we shall remain."

Hobie starts laughing too. It causes them to shift, Hobie's thigh rising up between Laurence's, finally slotting them up just-so. Hobie gasps a breath, delighted, and ruts up against Laurence's hip, Laurence copying the movement, only against Hobie's thigh. It all clicks into place then, both of Hobie's hands free to cradle Laurence's neck, petting softly in juxtaposition to the frantic working of their hips, kissing deep into one another's mouths, not an inch of space between them from head to thigh.

Laurence comes before him, and Hobie moans, dragging his lips from Laurence's as he tries to suck some air back into his lungs, feeling lightheaded. He works his hips faster and damn near bites his own tongue in half when Laurence says, "Tell me what to do," between huffed-out laughs. "Otherwise I'll be forced direct you to orgasm."

Hobie hates how the thought of it makes his dick start to leak. "Please," he gasps. He hasn't got enough wits about him to beg properly, but he's never had any use for pride during sex anyhow.

Laurence leans back down and rests his head on Hobie's shoulder, makin' the full weight of him press down on Hobie. "Work against me," he says, speaking right into Hobie's ear. "Focus on the hair of my legs, how they catch against the soft skin of that lovely cock of your's." Hobie does, hyper-aware of all the places they're touching, the damp heat of Laurence's breath on his face as he speaks, the sticky mess on his hip and stomach where Laurence had come on him, how they're both a sweaty mess.

A thought comes to him then, unbridled. He can't shake it, so he concentrates real hard on remembering how to speak. "Laurence." He has to gasp a few times, mind needing the oxygen. "I'm takin' you to that fuckin' premiere." He means to ask it as a question, but it doesn't come out that way. He wouldn’t accept _no_ as an answer anyhow though, so maybe it's for the best.

Laurence laughs again, mouth still pressed right against Hobie's ear, causing Hobie to shudder at the sound, practically as intimate as what's going on with their lower halves. "Alright," Laurence says, and then his words start to blur in Hobie's mind, nonsense that he can't make out but that he knows is being specifically crafted to get him off or rile him up, not as if there's a real difference between the two.

It must occur to Laurence that Hobie isn't paying him much mind anymore because the words stop. He starts to bite along the edge of Hobie's jaw, and it's that that has him coming.

"Sweet fucking Jesus." Hobie bites the words out, his body shuddering, still trapped under Laurence, no place on Earth he'd rather be. He takes back control of his limbs and brings his arms around Laurence's back,squeezin' him tight. "Don't you ever pull that kinda nonsense on me again. I'll tell you that right now. I won't stand for it."

Laurence shifts so that he's between the back of the couch and Hobie's side, no longer laying directly on top of him, one of Hobie’s arms trapped underneath Laurence’s side from where he's still trying to clutch him tight. "Alright," he says again, voice soft. His hand comes up to play with Hobie's fringe, too-long by half but Laurence had forbade him from cuttin' it while they were filming and he hasn't had the time to get it cut since. Laurence's current fascination with curling the hair around his fingers explains the demand from back then, and Hobie lets out a quiet, tired laugh at the discovery. 

“Hobie,” Laurence begins, “Since we’re trading demands, I feel behooved to impart one of my own.”

Hobie wiggles his arm until it’s at a more comfortable angle, lettin' Laurence use his bicep as a pillow. He stretches his legs all the way down to the tips of his toes and says, “Shoot,” around a yawn.

“Please understand that I mean this in the kindest way possible.” Laurence is using his indulging voice, the one he always pulls out of his back pocket when he think’s Hobie is too stupid to understand whatever he’s actually goin’ on about. “I never want to work with you again. You are an absolute horror.” Hobie blinks and thinks, _well_ _that was certainly more direct than usual_.  

He makes a show out of _hmm_ -ing and considerin' Laurence's words a bit, using his free hand to scratch at the cooling mess still staining his hip, frowning a little. “I suppose that’s far,” he allows. “You’ll still help me run lines though, right? I don’t think they’ll let me go back to mostly not-talkin’ no more, 'specially if this thing does well.”

Laurence makes a noise that Hobie’s only ever heard heifers make before they’d been tipped. Hobie starts kickin’ around the idea that he might want to spend the rest of his life causin’ Laurence all kinds of grief, just to hear that noise over and over again until the last second before he's dead and buried.

The way Laurence’s voice goes all pinched and strangled when he eventually grits out, " _Fine_ ," pretty much seals the deal on that decision.

**Author's Note:**

> / impôrˈt(y)o͞on /  
>  _verb_  
>      ¹ ask (someone) pressingly and persistently for or to do something.  
>     ² approach (someone) to offer one's services as a prostitute.  
> 


End file.
